


Would that I could weep like you

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Deaths, Gen, Minor Character Death, S1E8, The Challenge - Freeform, time travel sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: D'Artagnan is granted his greatest wish, to undo the one thing he regrets above all else.But he hasn't realised what achieving that wish will mean for him and for those he loves.





	Would that I could weep like you

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during "The Challenge". The way d'Artagnan cries while the King makes him a musketeer has always hit me in the feels, so I wrote about what might be making him weep.
> 
> The title is from Dumas, _The Three Musketeers_ , chapter 63: "je voudrais bien pouvoir pleurer comme toi!"

Richelieu’s Red Guards threw d’Artagnan out of the cardinal’s chambers with more than reasonable force. That they took the opportunity to rub his nose in his humiliation was hardly a surprise, and he’d taken worse bruises sparring with Athos. Later, when night fell, he would have to find a way into the Bastille, and confront LaBarge himself, force him to admit his crimes so d’Artagnan could win enough compensation to take part in the challenge

But right now, he wanted to get well and truly drunk.

Since he had barely a sou to bless himself with, this desire would have to be unfulfilled as any of his larger ambitions. He hauled his carcass to the nearest public well, since he could at least drink water for free, and hoped by splashing water on his face, his unmanly tears could be taken for drops of well water.

If he had not convinced his father to stop at that cursed inn.

If he had been able to persuade his father to wait until spring before coming to Paris.

If he had gone back to Gascony to see to the farm and ensure its safe management instead of remaining to seek his fortune and career—hah!—as a Musketeer.

So many mistakes. If he had avoided the first two, Father would be alive.

If only Father were alive....

He leaned against the well and wiped his nose over and over with the back of his hand. The ache of his father’s death was always there, but right now, he would have welcomed nothing more than to have the chance to sit with Father one more time, listen to that wise, kind voice, tell him his dreams. Of course Father would have laughed at his foolishness, but to hear that deep laugh....

A feminine cry and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle made him stand up and look around, and with one last hasty swipe at his nose, he strode over to where three youths were making merry with an elderly woman, tugging at her basket of goods, and snatching at her hood.

D’Artagnan pushed his way in front of the group, put his hand on his sword, and used his best Athos voice. “Be off with you, or you’ll regret it.” The oldest was not much younger than him, but since arriving in Paris, d’Artagnan had added breadth to his natural advantage of height after so much training. The youth tilted his chin up to make one last insult, but d’Artagnan only had to step forward and the three scampered off.

Their victim was collecting her scattered belongings with the slowness of one afflicted with arthritis. D’Artagnan quickly finished the task, wiping the vegetables off on his own trousers. “Madame, may I have the honour of accompanying you to your home? I fear those ruffians may be troublesome again.”

“I would be grateful, kind sir. But you take too much trouble....”

He gently detached her surprisingly heavy basket from her arm, and put it on his own. “Not at all, madame. Here, please lean on me. This damp weather isn’t kind to the bones.”

“No, it is not. Thank you.”

She lived not far from where he’d met her, and had to climb three sets of stairs until she reached her tiny set of rooms. D’Artagnan entered and put the basket where she indicated, on a sideboard.

“Will you take a cup of watered wine with me, young sir? I don’t have much company these days.”

He bowed as if to her majesty. “It would be my pleasure to accept, madame.”

The wine was thin and sour even before it had been watered, but it was wet and welcome for all that. The woman had to be nearly eighty, and d’Artagnan wondered how she kept herself with no obvious relatives or friends.

“I’m not as feeble as you think me, sir,” she said, as if she’d read his mind. “But those youths surprised me, and I made the mistake to carrying too much from market.”

“I don’t think you feeble, madame. You should not have had the trouble at all.”

“Ah, no, but I do. Not a man has ever helped me so quickly or willingly before, though. I am invisible to normal sight, or so it would seem.”

Having seen how the old were treated in this city, he could imagine how she was treated. “I am a cadet with his majesty’s Musketeers, madame. It would be dishonourable indeed for any one of us to pass a woman in difficulty.”

“Yes, I imagine,” she said. She reached over to touch his cheek. “And what does a cadet of the famed Musketeers have to weep about today?”

He jerked a little. “Weep?”

“Those are tears, monsieur, and your eyes aren’t red from the cold. An affair of the heart?”

“No, no. I mean...I was not weeping at all.” She continued to regard him with grey, rheumy eyes that were nonetheless as piercing as Treville’s. “I was...it’s of no consequence, madame, truly.”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Hmmm. A brave strong man like you doesn’t weep over a trifle. What is your name, monsieur?”

“Charles, son of Alexandre d’Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony.” Just to say the name tore at his heart afresh.

“And when did your father die, Charles?”

“How did you know?” She gave him the same look that Athos used when he’d been more stupid than usual. “In January. He was murdered, and from that, all my sorrows followed.”

“A great and deep burden on an only son. Tell me Charles, son of Alexandre, if you could have but one wish granted, whatever that might be, what would you choose?”

He screwed up his face in confusion. “A wish?”

“If you had the power to change anything. One thing.”

“I’d choose to stop my father coming to Paris in January,” he said promptly. “He would not have met the men who killed him, he would still be alive,  and our farm would be safe.”

She nodded. “You’ve given this some thought, I see.”

“I have more than enough time to do so now, as I’ll never become a Musketeer.”

“Yes.” She rose with a groan and went to a drawer in her sideboard. Withdrawing something, she returned. “Hold out your hand, Charles.”

He obeyed, and into his palm she dropped a large, blue bead. She closed his fingers around it. “You have shown yourself honourable, brave, and kind today. Precious qualities I see far too rarely. I have given you a charm. All you have to do is to hold it tight, and wish fervently for that one thing you want above all else. That wish will be granted to you.”

D’Artagnan smiled politely. The old woman was a little deluded, but that was hardly uncommon among the very elderly. “You’re very kind, madame.”

The look she gave him was as sharp as a woman’s his own age. “You might not think so in the end, Charles, but only you know what is in your heart. Now, go.”

“Now?”

She smiled. “When one has one’s dearest wish to gain, there’s nothing to be gained by delay. Think hard, be sure, hold the charm, make the wish. You only get one.”

“Uh...well, thank you, madame.”

“Good day, Charles. Good day.”

He went back down the three sets of stairs, and out into the damp cold street. What a strange old woman, indeed. The bead in his hand was pretty enough, and warm to the touch, but for all that, one could buy a hundred of them in the market if one knew the right place to ask.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he decided he had nothing to lose by giving it a try. He clenched the bead hard, and made his wish.

He collapsed, fainting.

When he woke, he was lying on the bed in his old bedroom at his father’s house in Lupiac.

*************************

D’Artagnan stared at the ceiling. Was this a fever dream of some kind? He brushed his hand down his chest and found he was wearing his old nightshirt. No sign of his weapons belt.

He sat up. There was none of the unreal sensation of a dream, yet the room, the cold air and the smell of smoke, were exactly as he remembered them from his last night at the farm. Which was impossible. But if he was truly home....

_Father!_

He dashed out of the room, not even bothering to pull on his trousers, and tore along the upper floor and down the stairs.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten to put on his boots as he had become accustomed to doing at the Bonacieux house, and the combination of speed, stockinged feet, and polished wood stairs made for disaster. His feet flew up from under him, he cracked his head, and when he next knew anything, he was on the stone floor downstairs, in tremendous pain and his father was looking down at him with an achingly familiar expression of worry and irritation.

“Charles! You’re awake, thank the Lord. Lie still. You’ve broken your leg and your wrist, and who knows what else. I’ll send Pierre for Madame Thierry, but I’ll try to set your bones when I come back. Lie still, boy!”

“Papa, you’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive, you foolish boy. This puts paid to Paris for a month or two, damn it.”

“I’m sorry.”

His father patted his cheek. “Now, now, no tears, Charles. It’s no tragedy. Just be calm. Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.”

D’Artagnan had no choice but to stay where he lay, and despite the agony in multiple points of his body, couldn’t stop grinning in elation. He’d done it! The old woman’s charm had worked. How, he had no idea, but all that mattered was that his father was alive, and would not be going to Paris to be murdered in two weeks’ time.

He felt rather less elated after the tedious, painful business of bone-setting, and the attentions of Madame Thierry who knew her healing, but wasn’t anyone’s idea of a gentle, comforting goodwife for all she had five strapping sons and had been the midwife in Lupiac for thirty years. She scolded him for carelessness, wagged her finger at him and forbade him from getting up except to relieve himself for two days on account of his cracked head, and spoke with barely restrained impatience to his father about the fecklessness of youth, and the trouble they made for their parents.

His father and Pierre set up a cot for him by the fireplace in the sitting room, and set a chamberpot for him nearby. His father insisted on giving him a cup of the disgusting herbal tea Madame Thierry had left for him which she claimed was good for healing bones, and said he could have a bowl of gruel once he could keep the tea down.

His injuries were grave, though not life threatening. Madame Thierry warned that the break to his lower left leg would likely leave him with a limp, and it would be a miracle if he regained the full use of his right wrist. As his head cleared over the next couple of days, he realised that the injuries could interfere with his ability to fight and wield a sword. He might never be fit to become a cadet in the Musketeers.

But he refused to admit defeat. The most important thing was that his father had not travelled to Paris as planned, so would avoid the plot concocted by the cardinal. The need to speak to the king still remained, since LaBarge’s greed was causing increasing hardship and misery every day, and the man had rudely and violently dismissed Alexandre d’Artagnan when confronted over it. The village and farmers could not bear much more of this. His father grumbled about the delay d’Artagnan’s accident had caused, although he also admitted that travel in the spring might be easier and faster. D’Artagnan would be fit to ride by then,

Having lost his father once, d’Artagnan was determined to make the most of his resurrection. Things he had paid scant attention to before, advice he had politely scoffed at (in private), musings his father expressed as they sat together by the fire before bed—all these, d’Artagnan now treasured, and sought out. His father was somewhat surprised at his son’s increased interest in his opinions.

“Perhaps that fall knocked some sense in you,” he said gruffly one evening.

“I think it did, Father. Now, you were saying?”

D’Artagnan chafed at the constant ache in his healing limbs, and the slowness of that recovery, but he improved as steadily as the winter drew on, leading to a cold and bitter spring. His brothers in the garrison would be finding it much harder than he did, standing guard over the king and queen. He couldn’t wait until he saw them again, this time not an impoverished orphan, but a young gentleman with coin in his purse, and a determination to do his family name proud.

There was another ache behind all the others, with Constance’s name on it. This time around, he would not make the mistake he had when he’d first met her, of insulting and assaulting her. He would contrive a more graceful introduction.

His father decided they would begin their postponed journey once Holy Week and Easter were done. D’Artagnan’s bones were as healed as they were going to get, and he had worked hard to regain some strength and flexibility. His wrist ached all the time, and was worryingly weak. “Never mind, Charles. A farmer doesn’t often need to use a sword.”

“A gentleman should be able to defend his family and home, Father.”

“Aye, boy, but that’s my job for now. Be patient, if it’s not a waste of breath to say it to you.” D’Artagnan made a face, but his father cuffed his shoulder and smiled in a friendly fashion. He hadn’t meant it unkindly.

The weather was drier and warmer than the first time he’d made this journey, but it was tiring and uncomfortable for all that. His leg and wrist protested the long days and the movements of riding, but d’Artagnan made no complaint. He considered the pain a reasonable price for having his beloved father back, and thanked God every day for the miracle. He wore the old woman’s bead around his neck, even if it had no more power now. He thanked her too, though he could never admit what she had done.

By the time they arrived in Paris, Spring was well under way, and the weather quite warm. He and his father were to stay with a distant relative in Paris, a successful merchant called Godard. This had not been the plan before, but d’Artagnan’s injury had given his father time to write and ask to stay. D’Artagnan had had no idea that one of his family, though but a third cousin, lived in the city.

Godard greeted them warmly, though he warned d’Artagnan’s father that the king was unlikely to listen to any plea to lessen taxes. “After the king's jewels were stolen, he became as rapacious as the cardinal. Richelieu’s always been greedy, and cunning. Cruel too.”

“Yes, he is,” d’Artagnan said.

His father gave him a sharp look. “What do you know of his eminence, Charles?”

“I...just heard.”

His father frowned. “Gossip should be beneath a gentleman’s notice. Thank you, cousin. I am obliged to try, even if the chances are small.”

Godard nodded. “I understand. I wish you luck, though I doubt it will make any difference.”

They went to the palace the next morning, but the king was indisposed, and an audience would not be held that day, or on the next. His father grumbled at the delay, but there was nothing to be done about it. “I may as well use the time to make some enquiries about this and that. Our cousin can help me, I do believe.”

“I wonder if you would mind if I spent a little time looking around, Father?”

“Looking around? The city is not a safe or pleasant place, boy. What could you want to see here?”

“I...I heard there was a Gascon captain of the king’s musketeers. I thought I might try and speak to him.”

His father’s eyebrow rose to his hairline. “And where...oh, never mind. Remember who you are, and whose son you are, and stay out of trouble. Return before dark, and keep your sword and main gauche by you.”

“Yes, sir. Here, take my purse. Less temptation for thieves.”

“Very sensible,” his father said, one eyebrow still raised. “Here, keep a few sou. You need to eat, but stay out of the bad areas, Charles. I would prefer you came with me.”

“I promise to be home within a few hours. I want to see Notre Dame, at least.”

“Ah, yes. That’s worth seeing. Then be careful, and go with my blessing.”

D’Artagnan was sorry to cause his father any worry, but he knew more about the city streets than his father could know, and even with his weakened wrist and lack of practice, he was not defenceless.

He walked the familiar path from the palace to the garrison, hoping he might encounter one of his friends, even if they didn’t yet know who he was. But he didn’t see them, nor, in fact, a single Musketeer. Not even a flash of Musketeer blue anywhere on the streets, which was both surprising and alarming.

He came to the garrison, where the gates were closed as they never used to be during the day. He banged hard on the gates. Eventually a sour-looking man appeared at the grille, without opening the gate itself. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Excuse me, _monsieur_ , I am looking for Captain Treville of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Musketeers? Ain’t been no musketeers here this four months, boy. King disbanded them in the winter.”

“What? Why?”

“I ain’t got the time—”

He looked about to move away, so d’Artagnan hastily asked, “Wait, please. Where is Treville, do you know?”

“Gone. Dunno where.”

“Gone? But what of his men? Athos, Porthos, Aramis?  All the musketeers?”

“All gone. I told you.”

“Wait. What of old Serge, the cook?”

“Oh, that old fool. Try Christophe’s tavern. I heard Christophe’s wife took pity on the old bugger and hired him as a cook. Now, be off with you, boy.” The man disappeared, and it would be pointless to call him back.

Christophe’s tavern. D’Artagnan vaguely knew where it lay, but asking a few people in the market nearby earned him the directions, as well as an exact dating of the garrison closure. “It was when the king’s vaults were looted,” a woman selling vegetables said. “Next thing we knew, them Red Guards came down and turned the lot of them out. Oh, there was a to-do about that, I can tell you.”

“Do you know what happened to the Musketeers, madame?”

“Dunno. Some went home, I suppose. Maybe some back to the army. Made a difference to my income, for sure. Them Red Guards are tight as a bee’s arse with their money, unless it’s for wine.”

He thanked the woman, and went off in search of Serge and his new position. The tavern was a large establishment, with many drinkers even at this early time of the day. He spoke to the barman. “Excuse me, _monsieur_. I’m looking for Serge? Or failing that, the wife of Christophe?”

A woman standing at the side turned towards him. “I’m Josephine, Christophe Boutin’s wife. What business have you with Serge?”

“I want news of some former colleagues...friends of mine.”

She pursed her lips. “Out back. But don’t go distracting him for too long. And don’t upset him. His cooking’s nothing to boast of at the best of times.”

D’Artagnan bowed politely and went out to the kitchens. Serge was tending the fire under a cauldron. “Serge?”

The old man looked up with a friendly smile. “That’s me, young sir. Do I know you?”

“No...but you know some friends of mine. My name is d’Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony.”

“Gascony, eh? Long way from home, boy.”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan sat on a log near where Serge was crouching. “I’m looking for Aramis, Porthos, and Athos. Also Captain Treville.”

Serge’s expression went hard. “Friend, you say?”

“Yes. Um, from a long time ago.”

“You haven’t heard then. Athos is dead.”

The world disappeared as a tremendous pain bloomed in d’Artagnan’s chest. “D-dead?”

“You’ve gone white, boy. Put your head between your knees.” The old man rose while d’Artagnan obeyed. _Dead? How?_

A mug was shoved under his nose. “Have some wine, take it easy, boy. Go on.”

D’Artagnan sipped the watered wine until he found his voice again. “How is he dead? When?”

“This winter past. Tried for highway robbery and murder. None of us in the garrison believed a word of it, but he was hanged all the same.”

“It can’t be. We weren’t there.”

“Eh?”

D’Artagnan realised his words would make no sense to Serge. “And the others? Aramis and Porthos?”

Serge’s eyes went distant and sad. “Dead too, though not by hanging. Died in an explosion under the palace, when the king’s vault was robbed. Terrible thing that was. Then the king ordered the Musketeers to be disbanded. We was all thrown out without a day’s warning. Even the captain. King offered him a place in the army, but Treville, well...he has his pride.”

“Has? So he’s not dead?”

“No, no, but he might as well be. He took Athos’s old apartments, lives there on his own now. Heart went out of him when his best men died. I reckon he barely cared what happened after that.”

“This can’t be true. All of them dead?”

“It’s true all right. Sorry to bring you such bad news. How did you say you knew them?”

“It was...a while ago. They were very kind to me.” His eyes filled, and though he stared at the fire, all he saw were the faces of his friends.

“Was there aught else, then? I should be getting back to work, or Madame will pitch a fit.”

“No. Thank you.” D’Artagnan struggled to his feet and handed back the mug. “Do you know the house of Bonacieux?”

“Bonacieux? That’s that rat-faced, ill-tempered cloth merchant, the one with the pretty young wife.”

“That’s the one.”

“They’s gone too, I heard. Losing the business from the garrison sent them broke. Of course with her pregnant, they had more spending needed than they had money to spend, and I heard they was in trouble before that. I think they let out the house and left. No idea where though. Sorry.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, though he felt exactly the opposite of gratitude. He pulled out the few sou his father had given him for lunch, and gave them to Serge. “For your help.”

Serge’s head bobbed in gratitude. “Very kind, young sir. If you’re looking up the captain, you tell him I think of him kindly, won’t you?”

“I will. Good day.”

Outside, he had to wait until his heart stopped racing. Athos, dead. Aramis and Porthos, dead. Constance pregnant and who knew where.

And Treville discarded.

This was worse than his worst nightmare. Even worse than when he’d lost his father the first time he’d made this trip.

And it was all his fault, he realised. Athos had been exculpated because d’Artagnan had known the attackers at the inn wore stolen uniforms. And without Athos, perhaps even without d’Artagnan himself, the plan to capture Vadim had led to his brothers being caught in his trap and killed.

 _Athos, dead_. Even though the lieutenant had been so careless of his survival when d’Artagnan had first encountered him, everything had changed after the fire at his old estate and he’d discovered his wife was still alive. And Aramis and Porthos had always been so full of life, the will to live. D’Artagnan had thought them immortal, or near enough.

Constance...pregnant by that odious husband, now trapped forever by being a mother and needing Bonacieux’s support for the child.

He didn’t know if he had the courage to face Treville, knowing that he, d’Artagnan, was behind so much ill-fortune and misery. But he had to know everything he had done. It would be the least of the penance due to him.

Athos’s apartments had been in an area d’Artagnan’s father would definitely not have approved of, but to d’Artagnan they were all too familiar and ground on his grief afresh. He climbed a narrow set of stairs and banged on the door.

“Go away.”

“Sir? Captain Treville? Please, may I speak to you.”

The door was ripped open, but instead of the proud, stern face d’Artagnan grown so used to—so fond of, in his way—the visage before him was reddened, unshaven and slack from drink. “Who the hell are you?”

“Charles, son of Alexandre d’Artagnan from Lupiac in Gascony.”

“Never heard of you. Be off.”

“Sir, please! I need to speak to you...about Athos.”

Treville’s face twisted in ugly pain. “Nothing to say, boy. Man’s dead.”

“I know. I know about the others too. Please...I want to know what happened.”

“Why?”

“Because...they were my friends once too.”

The sharp mind behind the drunkenness immediately jumped on that. “Never heard of any of them ever being in Gascony, boy, let alone Lupiac. D’Artagnan, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Name’s familiar to me, but I don’t know _you_.”

“I mean you no harm, I swear.”

“You’d be more welcome if you did. Ah, come in. What do I care what you think or know?”

The room had been spare and squalid in Athos’s day, and Treville had changed it little, except to add a cloak and his breast plate to hook on the wall. Even Athos’s chest stood where it had always been. “You took his rooms.”

“Eh? Oh, his. Athos didn’t need them any more, did he? Not after our dear cardinal fitted him up and had him hanged. Damned if the man didn’t go to his death as if it was all he deserved, but he was innocent!” Treville, wobbling as he stood, poked d’Artagnan in the chest. “Innocent, I swear to you!”

“Yes, sir. I believe you. Athos was no murderer. His loss must have hurt.”

“Bah. What do I care? Lose one good man, lose three, lose the king’s jewels, lose my rank and my reputation, lose my regiment? What do I care, Charles of Lupiac in Gascony? Who gives a rat’s shit for my name, when so much has been....” He collapsed onto the chest, his face in his hands.

Treville had once been more stoic than Athos. To bring him to this pass took not only all the tragedies d’Artagnan had learned of, but also being robbed of his position and a meaningful role in life. “Will the king not change his mind, sir? You taught him the sword as a child.”

“I did, but I didn’t teach him to kill snakes before they could do him harm, or he would have killed that miserable son of a festering demon’s testicle before he could pull him under his thrall.” Belatedly, it occurred to Treville he should not speak so openly. “What did you need from me, boy? I have nothing.”

“I wanted...I wanted to know how Athos was trapped, and how his friends died. But more than that, sir, I wanted to give you a warning. About Marsac.”

Treville frowned mightily. “ _Marsac_?” he spat. “That coward?”

“The deserter from the Savoy mission, yes.”

Treville surged up, grabbed d’Artagnan by his shirt, and threw him against the wall. “What the _fuck_ do you know about Savoy?” he growled into d’Artagnan’s face.

“I know it was a massacre of musketeers, and only two survived. Aramis and Marsac. Marsac deserted Aramis and left him for dead. Marsac knows the truth, sir. He knows that the Cardinal forced you to reveal where the musketeers were positioned, and the Duke of Savoy—”

Treville slammed his hand over d’Artagnan’s mouth. “Shut up, boy. This is treason. You shouldn’t know about any of this. Why are you here?”

He pulled his hand away. D’Artagnan spoke quickly. “To warn you. Marsac is going to try to kill the duke when he visits this summer. And he’ll try to murder you too.”

Pinned like this, Treville’s hand was as close as d’Artagnan’s own to his knife. “How can you possibly know that, unless you’re working with that traitor?”

“I’m not, I swear! Sir, please, listen to me. He’s coming to kill you and the duke. You need to tell the king.”

Treville let him go and walked away. “And how will I do that, boy? The king forbade me to enter the palace or speak to him ever again, and even if I could, what would I say? That a mysterious youth from Gascony speaks of affairs of state that only three people in the world should know of, and wants to warn of a threat by a man who should be dead five years ago?”

“Yes.”

Treville glared, and for the first time, seemed a little like the man d’Artagnan had known. “Well, I can’t.”

“But if the duke is murdered and France is blamed, Savoy will align itself with Spain.”

“Too bad.”

“What? Sir, the king or queen could be injured in such an attack, and the political—”

“I told you, I can’t do anything about this, boy. I have no position, no influence. No men. The best people I knew are all dead. Go.”

“Sir—”

“Leave!” Treville bellowed. “Get out of my sight, and don’t return!”

D’Artagnan had no choice but to obey. Out on the street again, he could scarcely believe what he had heard. How could Treville not care about something to which he had devoted his entire life? And should d’Artagnan try to warn the king anyway?

Richelieu would have him imprisoned and tortured in an instant to find out how he knew of Savoy. So that was of no use.

In pain from using his leg so much, and sick at heart, he decided there was nothing left to do but return to his cousin’s house. He rubbed his chest, tight with sorrow, and felt the bead under his shirt. Now he understood the old woman’s warning that he might not thank her once his wish had been granted. Yes, he had won his father’s life—but at the cost of three good men—three good _friends_ —the ruin of Treville’s career, and the loss of Constance to a child and husband he knew full well she didn’t want.

Where had the old woman’s lodgings been? Between the palace and the garrison, he remembered. So he walked back to the garrison and made for the palace. Yes, there was the well. He stopped to refresh himself while he looked around and found the street where he’d walked with her. Yes, this was it.

He climbed the three sets of stairs and knocked politely on the door. He had no way of knowing if she was at home, or what she could do, but at least she knew he wasn’t lying about what he knew.

The door opened  a crack. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, madame. You don’t know me, but in...another life...you gave me this.” He pulled the leather cord with the bead from around his neck and handed it to her.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I gave you this? When?”

“It’s complicated. Either in a few months’ time or last winter.”

She pursed her lips. “Come in, young man.”

The room was exactly as he remembered it, the woman just the same. “You’ve been in here before,” she said, not as a question.

“Yes, madame. I was of some assistance to you, and I walked you back to these rooms. You offered me watered wine, and when I told you about...a sorrow I had, you gave me this bead and said it would give me my dearest wish.”

“And did it?”

“Yes, but now it’s all gone wrong.” She regarded him calmly, as if this was nothing she hadn’t anticipated. “My friends are dead, my captain has lost position and honour, my...my love is lost. And now there’s a threat to the king and to France I can’t do anything about.”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“Turn it all back,” he pleaded. “It was a mistake. My friends didn’t deserve to die for my selfishness.”

“But you already have the power to undo all this, young sir. All you have to do is smash the bead, and the charm will be lifted. Things will be exactly as they were before you made your wish.” She laid the charm on the table.

His heart lifted. “Exactly?” But then he thought more and realised. “My father would be dead once more, wouldn’t he?”

“If that was the state of matters before the wish, then yes. I can’t grant you another wish. That was the only one I had left.”

“So, to save my friends, my father must die. If I save my father—”

She nodded. “Your friends will lose their lives. It is ever thus, young sir. Every choice we make, good or ill, affects our futures and those of others. You cannot undo one act and avoid the consequences of that undoing.”

“But I can’t kill my own father. I can’t. I’ve been so happy knowing he was alive again.”

Her eyes were soft with sympathy. “No doubt. It’s your choice. Make it now, make it in ten years. It makes no difference to whether the charm will be undone. You will come back to exactly the moment and place where you were when you made the wish.”

“So I could let him die of old age and still undo the spell?”

“If you wish. Of course, you also need to live so long, young sir. If you die before the charm is reversed, then it can never be undone.”

He stared at the bead. “There has to be another way.”

She shrugged. “If there is one, I don’t know it. The only consolation I can offer is that your dead friends are beyond pain.”

“But the ones who live are not.” Treville, Constance. Even the king and queen. If d’Artagnan did nothing, two lives would be ruined for certain, and the royal family might be harmed, even killed.

“How did you help me?” she asked, breaking into his miserable thoughts.

“Huh? Oh. There were youths pestering you on your way home from market. I made them go away.”

“Ah. Then you did me a service, and I can tell you have a kind heart. I didn’t give you that charm to make your life a misery, young sir. I’m very sorry that it has.”

“No, no. It’s my own fault. I should have stopped and thought...I mean, it’s obvious now that, without me, Athos would hang. But the others...I should have stopped to think.” He closed his eyes in grief. “That’s what he was always telling me. Stop, think. Head over heart.”

“He was a good man?”

“The best. They all were,” he whispered. “But so is my father. How can I weigh his life against theirs?”

“You can’t. But take your own advice. Stop, think. You don’t need to do anything this moment.” She came over and put her hands on his head, like a blessing. “You’re also a good man. I will pray that your decision is wise. But there is pain either way, and you will not avoid it. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. You gave me what I most wanted...what I thought I most wanted...but if I had been less selfish, I could have wished for something less dangerous. Maybe just for the thirty livres for the challenge.”

She removed her hands. “I have no idea what—”

“No, I know.” He stood and took her hands. “You wanted to give me something nice. It’s not your fault that I made a mistake. My name is Charles d’Artagnan, madame.”

“Then, Charles d’Artagnan, I pray your decision brings you some comfort, whatever it is.”

“Thank you.”

By the time he reached his cousin’s house, he was in a great deal of pain, physical and mental. His father exclaimed in shock at the sight of him. “What have you been doing, Charles?”

“Overdoing it, that’s all. If Cousin Godard doesn’t object, I think I’ll take myself to bed.”

“Have you eaten, son? You look unwell to me.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “And I’m not hungry. Please, Father.”

“As you wish.” His father clasped his shoulder. “Rest well, my boy.”

D’Artagnan caught his father’s hand, unable to contain the tears at the thought of losing him all over again. “There, there, boy, no need to cry. Whatever’s the matter with you?”

“Maybe I am unwell. I just need rest.”

“I’ll look in on you later.”

“Thank you.”

Up in his room, he sobbed as he had the first nights after his father had been murdered by the false Athos, only this time his tears were for the real Athos, and Aramis, and Porthos. Their loss was too much to bear, but to bring them back meant another, even more terrible loss.

Once he had cried himself out, he realised there was another thing to consider. When his father died, and d’Artagnan had deserted the farm, LaBarge had destroyed their estate and turned out all the tenants. If d’Artagnan reversed the charm, that would happen all over again.

So it wasn’t just a simple question of one good man’s life for that of three other good men, but one good man’s life being the protection that dozens of defenceless innocents desperately needed.

But what about the innocents Athos, Aramis, Porthos and all the other musketeers had saved and protected? Whom they _would_ save in the future, if they lived?

He tossed and turned until his father came upstairs with a mug of hot milk sweetened with honey. “Won’t you tell me what got you into this state, Charles?” he asked as he handed over the drink to d’Artagnan. “You know you can tell me. Did you run into trouble?”

“No, Father, I didn’t,” he said honestly. He sipped the soothing drink, a remedy his father had often used when he was younger and poorly. His head ached and he felt a little as if he really was coming down with something. That was _all_ he needed.

“I...I heard some bad news, that’s all. About that Gascon captain. I was able to talk to him. The king disbanded the Musketeers, blaming them for the loss of his jewels, but this was after the cardinal framed one of them for murder and had him hanged, while two other men were killed trying to stop the jewel theft. It’s so unfair and sad.”

His father nodded. “Aye, it sounds it. But, lad, you don’t know these men.”

“I just...talking to the captain. He’s a broken man because the king and the cardinal....” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think it’s worth bothering to speaking to either of them, Father. The king won’t hear reason, and LaBarge is the cardinal’s man.”

His father chuckled. “Now, boy, when did a d’Artagnan ever give up just because it was hard, eh? ‘Obstinacy in the face of difficulty’ is practically the family motto.” That drew a reluctant smile from d’Artagnan. “Cheer up, son. We’re here now, so we may as well speak to his majesty, however useless it might be. It won’t have been a complete waste of time. Godard has given me some useful information and contacts.” He put his hand on d’Artagnan’s neck. “Everything will be fine. I promise you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Now drink that and put yourself properly to bed. I’ll be up soon.”

“Yes, Father.”

He drank the milk and changed into his nightshirt. His father’s wise words had convinced him that the best course of action was to honour the memory of his lost friends by upholding their honour and dedication to the French people. He could still try to help Constance and Treville, if his father would agree to let him return to Paris. There was nothing he could do for them now.

They finally met the king two days later. His majesty listened with apparent concern to their reports, and promised to look into it, though the cardinal’s expression meant that nothing of the kind would happen. Everything else the king said was empty sentiment and meaningless wishes.

“Waste of time,” his father muttered as they left the court. “You were right, Charles.”

“I wish I hadn’t been. What now?”

“We go home, collect evidence, do what we can to protect our tenants. At least the king knows LaBarge is exceeding his remit by some way. It might be that he will take action, and if we provide more evidence, his resolve might be strengthened.”

D’Artagnan thought it a faint hope, but he didn’t want to dash it. He wondered if he should ask Treville for help or advice, maybe even invite to come with them on their journey home. But the captain no longer had a horse, and his uncertain temper might not be to his father’s taste. Once he arrived home, d’Artagnan could send a formal invitation with his father’s blessing.

The ride back was easier, the weather less temperamental. Despite the disappointment, his father remained optimistic. How much of that was for his benefit, d’Artagnan didn’t know, but he played up to it. The battle with LaBarge would be difficult, but as his father had said, it wasn’t their habit to give up just because it was hard. His father hadn’t seen what an animal LaBarge could be, but he knew well enough what a greedy, evil bastard their Intendant was. Alexandre d’Artagnan was under no illusions what they were up against, d’Artagnan was certain.

After two weeks, they approached Lupiac. D’Artagnan spotted it first and reined in his horse. “Father.” He pointed to the burned down house, but his father was already heading that way.

All was devastation, and no sign of the tenants. “LaBarge,” d’Artagnan muttered.

His father turned to him. “Why do you say that?”

“I, uh, heard he was starting to do this.”

“From who?”

“Someone in Paris.  Does it matter?”

His father frowned. “I suppose not, but I would like to know. When we get back to the farm, you will tell me.”

“Yes.” But d’Artagnan couldn’t—or could he? Maybe the truth was the best choice now.

They saw two more burned down farmhouse, and his father’s expression grew more ominous. “Where are the families? Why do this, Charles? How does this help anyone?”

“It’s about telling you who’s in charge. You stood up to him. He doesn’t like that.”

“He’ll have to get used to it.” He kicked his gelding into a canter, and d’Artagnan followed.

He pulled up again behind his father as they came to the house. Or, more accurately, what was left of the house. It was nothing but a blackened mess. Even the stables were gone. His father climbed off his horse and staggered into the ruins. He bent and picked up something—bones. Dog bones. The house had been burned down around the animals.

D’Artagnan saw more bones. “Father, there’s a body.”

His father came over and fell to his knees. “Pierre,” he whispered.

“I’ll kill him,” d’Artagnan ground out, staring at the remains of their family home. He heard a choked sound, and looked down. “Father!”

His father was clutching his chest, bent over, obviously in pain. D’Artagnan dropped down beside him. “What is it? Father!” His father’s face was covered in sweat, his eyes distant. “Father, lie down, please.” He eased his father down, as the man kept his hand tightly over his breast and panting as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Father, can you hear me? I’ll find Madame Thierry—”

His father grabbed his arm. “Don’t...leave...me. W-water?”

D’Artagnan ran to his horse and fetched his water bottle. By the time he returned, his father’s face was grey. He held the water bottle to his father’s mouth, and lifted one of his hands to steady it. “Hold on, Father. You’ll be all right. Just hold on. You’re strong. Please don’t die.”

“Charles, I...w-want....” His father’s voice faded, his hand fell away, and his face went slack.

“Father!” Frantically, d’Artagnan tried to find a pulse, or any sign that his father was breathing. There was nothing. His father was dead.

D’Artagnan knelt back and screamed fury and sorrow at the sky. _Not again._ This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Three good men, the ruin of so many lives, and still, he had lost his father and their farm had been destroyed. Again.

Weeping, he pulled his jerkin and shirt open, and jerked the bead on its cord until it broke. There was now nothing else he could do.

He stood, looked for two bricks in the charred mess of the house, and laid the bead on one. “I will avenge you, Father. I swear that on my honour.”

Then he brought the second brick down on the bead.

The briefest moment of confusion and whitened vision, and he found himself back in the road outside the old woman’s lodgings.

*************************

It was as the old woman had said—he was exactly the same as he had been before he had made his wish. His wrist was perfect, his leg sound.

His father dead in both versions of his life.

He ran hell for leather to the garrison. The first musketeer he saw was Porthos, preparing for a bout of hand to hand with the luckless du Val. “You’re really alive!”

Porthos swung around and grinned. “Why is that a surprise?” He grunted as d’Artagnan slammed into him and hugged him tight. “What’s this all about?”

“I’m just happy to see you, that’s all.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” d’Artagnan insisted as he wiped his eyes.

He chuckled and patted d’Artagnan’s head. “Well, it’s good to see you too, lad, but I’ve got work to do. So have you.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Now he had two reasons to confront the bastard in the Bastille. But with the memory of just what his impetuousness had cost him, he abandoned his plan to break in and try to make LaBarge answer for his crimes. The man would never surrender—his pride and greed were too powerful.

Instead, d’Artagnan concentrated on becoming the Musketeer champion at the challenge. Athos—who had likewise been startled by d’Artagnan’s emotion on encountering him again—could not conceal his approval at d’Artagnan’s increased focus and attention to his sword craft. “Good, d’Artagnan.Very good. Quite a change from this morning.”

This morning? But in those hours, d’Artagnan had lived—and aged—four months, and suffered more grief than Athos could ever realise. “I am capable of learning occasionally.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Athos gave him one of his rare, sweet smiles. “We might make a champion out of you yet.”

His renewed resolve to think before acting allowed him not to lose his temper when Treville made the shocking announcement that he, Treville, would be the champion, and not any of his men. It also—barely—allowed him to leave Constance after her rejection with a few shreds of his dignity. Her words hurt like hell, but nothing compared to the memory of losing his brothers, and losing his father again which was only a day ago now, instead of a year. Anything else was but a tiny nick to his soul.

At the palace, on the challenge ground, he stood with the rest of the Musketeers, proud and straight and supportive, to watch Treville snatch away the last chance he had of becoming a Musketeer. D’Artagnan would never let it be said that he put his own desires before the regiment’s honour. And besides, knowing what Treville would become without his regiment, without his position, d’Artagnan could never begrudge him the need to reinforce its importance to the king.

Then fortune gave his chance to avenge his father, his farm, his tenants, and the regiment when Treville tapped him to be his substitute in the challenge. It was Athos’s voice in his head intoning his lessons as much as his father’s words of advice, which helped him stay calm in the face of LaBarge’s tedious insults. The moment when he defeated the man who had taken so much from him, plunging his sword into the man’s chest and killing him, was sweet indeed.

Until d’Artagnan remembered what he had lost to get to this point. Even receiving the official pauldron, achieving what he once considered his dearest wish, could not prevent the sorrow pouring from him. He sobbed helplessly in front of the king himself, and could not make himself stop not matter how shameful it was. Fortunately, the king didn’t seem to mind. The two thousand livres he’d just added to the treasury were much more important than one weeping youth.

Athos cared though. D’Artagnan’s strange mood was ignored while Aramis and Athos dealt with the captain’s broken shoulder, but once Treville had been sent back to the garrison in a cart accompanied by the rest of the regiment on foot, Athos found d’Artagnan again, sitting on a log at the edge of the deserted challenge arena. He sat down beside his protégé.

“I thought there was nothing in the world you wanted more than to become a Musketeer.”

“I once believed that. No longer.” D’Artagnan turned to face his mentor. “Athos...if you could have avoided hanging your wife—say if you were able to prevent her murdering your brother—would you do so?”

Athos’s expression went blank. “What’s brought this on?”

“Would you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Even if it meant that you wouldn’t be a Musketeer now, and the times you have saved Aramis or Porthos wouldn’t have happened?”

The expression was no longer blank, but pained. “Are you asking me if the lives of Aramis and Porthos would be worth losing for the sake of my happiness?” D’Artagnan nodded, though he sensed he was on dangerous ground indeed now. “I’ve never thought about it that way. In that case, then, no. I would not sacrifice anyone for my happiness, let alone them.”

“My father died, and I became a Musketeer.”

Athos regarded him, then put a hand on his shoulder. “He did not die _in order that_ you might become a Musketeer. You didn’t kill him.”

“And yet this,” d’Artagnan shrugged the shoulder bearing the new pauldron, “came from that.”

“Indeed. No great prize comes without pain. And in your case, not without a good deal of hard work and training. Your father would be proud of you.”

The shameful tears filled d’Artagnan’s eyes again, but he made no move to wipe them away. “I just wish he was here to tell me.”

Athos said nothing, which was his way. But his eyes told d’Artagnan he understood only too well. “Will you give my wife’s money back to her?”

“When I have it. What’s she up to, do you think?”

“Nothing good, that’s for certain. But now, it’s time to celebrate. Your brothers will expect it.”

“I don’t much feel like it.”

Athos smiled wryly. “And that, too, is a duty of a good soldier. To think of the happiness of his brothers, to give them a reason to fight alongside you, to bear them along with you in good times and bad. Even when all you want to do is hide in a corner...and drink.”

“I wish you had met my father, Athos. He was a much better man than me.”

Athos smiled. “Our fathers always are better men than we are. But there’s no reason to believe that you won’t, in time, be better than the two of us put together. So smile, walk proud, and remember you are the King’s champion. No other man can say that today.”

“Thank you.”

“You earned it. Now let’s go. We’ll toast your father’s memory later too.”

D’Artagnan rose and gave Athos a boost up. He clasped Athos’s hand. “For what it’s worth, though you paid a heavy price for it, I would wish you nowhere else but here, or to fight along any other man’s side but yours and our brothers.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m reasonably certain I make a better Musketeer than a comte.”

Athos’s hand resting on his shoulder as they walked wasn’t the same as his father’s, but it felt good and comforting all the same. D’Artagnan would always do what his father had advised him to do—be a stubborn bugger in the face of difficulty—and would always protect the weak and behave with honour. He was a d’Artagnan, after all.

And forever Charles, son of Alexandre d’Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, corrections, criticisms and kudos all very welcome!


End file.
